And under the press of her pond’ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop!
And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout main-tack,
But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silvery track.
The mid-tide meets in the Channel waves that flow from shore to shore,
And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore,
And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each hour,
And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench’d on Waterford Tower.
What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?
’Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees,
For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four